


Espion Terribles

by kat8cha



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Gaby regularly calls them on this, Gen, Illya and Napoleon are losers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:25:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kat8cha/pseuds/kat8cha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Times that Napoleon and Illya called one another terrible spies and one time that Gaby called them both horrible spies. Also, how one learns to hook up and love the bomb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End. Or, the beginning?

“Absolutely hated working with you, Peril.” Napoleon says. The view is gorgeous, a beautiful city that given time Napoleon would love to explore. See the sights, meet more of the women, eat the food (and oh, just the smells of some of the shops he has been forced to pass) and potentially scope out the art scene. He would love to do that but… no. Time waits for no man (if only) and his handlers will certainly not be calmly waiting for him.

Not if they think he has the tape certainly not if they find out he doesn’t.

His statement isn’t, strictly, true. Napoleon has worked with far worse men than Kuryakin. There were points of this mission that were almost… fun.

“You are a terrible spy, cowboy.” Kuryakin responds.

They clink glasses and drink but Napoleon can’t help but feel slightly… perturbed. Upset, perhaps. He, a terrible spy?

Well.

Perhaps. He is, after all, a better thief. He has always considered himself a better thief. His career as a spy has always been about keeping himself from going to jail, he’d make a lousy prisoner. 

“Good evening, gentleman.” Waverly greets them and, not quite as one, they turn.


	2. Fur on End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya's stealth is not Napoleon's stealth.

Napoleon has noticed that Illya (and he thinks that by now a first name basis has been established, if only in his mind) can slip into a room without making a sound. He can slink (because he does not stroll) down a hallway and empty if of security without anyone noticing. Despite the fact he has shoulders that would make architects cry and muscles that regularly do make people cry (or scream) he is extremely light on his feet. 

Two days ago Gaby had threatened to put a bell on him.

“I,” The Russian spy was either going to shatter the wine glass in his hand or shake so hard he spilled it all over the floor, “miss.” Is all he manages before the vixen plastered to his front places a finger against his lips.

“I love shy boys.” She whispered. She is a foot shorter than Illya, even with her heels, and physically unimposing. Illya, however, looked increasingly terrified.

They were never going to find the stolen submarine plans if he kept this up.

“Piotr!” Napoleon cried cheerfully, he stepped towards the two ‘lovebirds’ and made as if to swing an arm around Illya’s shoulders, instead he knocked the man’s drink all over the lovely woman’s dress. “Oh, Piotr you absolute klutz.” 

Miléna Cinege sniffed haughtily. “I hardly think it was he-”

Illya slipped hastily out of Napoleon’s grasp. “Allow me to fetch a towel.” He addressed the slightly damp heiress, then he disappeared into the crowd with barely a glare shot Napoleon’s way.

“Well.” Miléna stared in the direction Illya had headed. “Well, I never!”

“He’s probably gone to fetch himself another drink.” Napoleon shook his head sadly. “I’d better make sure he returns with your towel.”

He had an idea where Illya had headed, the library of course. Gaby, under the guise of a history student studying famous houses in the region, had discovered the hidden safe earlier that day. And since Mr. Cinege was no criminal mastermind it was the most likely place for him to keep stolen submarine plans, at least until tomorrow when his buyers arrived to pick them up.

When Napoleon slipped into the library he found Illya with his gun out and an expression that teetered between relief and anger. Strange, how the other man could manage such a look without appearing off his rocker.

“You’re a terrible spy, Peril.” Napoleon grinned.


	3. The One with the Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya may or may not have, at one point, called himself an expert in a field where he is not.

Gaby couldn’t believe it. She simply… she couldn’t believe it. She had been partnered with, no, not partnered because she was the senior agent, she had been saddled with two of the most… the most childish, the most annoying, the most masculine spies in the whole of… in the whole of…!

In the whole of this room, at least. Definitely not in the whole of the building as there were three very foolish spies who had been left to guard the door. Although, given what was kept in the room, perhaps they counted less as spies and more as canon fodder.

“You said,” Napoleon twisted in his bonds once more as if it would do him any more good than the last time, “that you were an incendiary specialist.”

Gaby wished that the men who had chosen to lock Solo to a bomb hadn’t decided to also weld the handcuffs shut. She wished it because, if the cuffs hadn’t been sabotaged then even stripped to his underwear as he was he likely would have freed himself an hour before Illya and she had arrived. She also wished it because the burn marks on Napoleon’s wrists were likely painful, would be difficult to hide, and would take time to heal.

If they got a chance to heal them.

“I am expert.” Illya growled from his position at the door. His nervous glances at the timer, at Solo, at her weren’t doing anyone’s nerves any good. “At building them.”

“Would you two shut up?!” Gaby would have thrown the pliers at either of them but she needed the pliers, she needed to think.

Napoleon laughed, high, a little manic, the laughter of a man with less than a minute to live. She shivered and cut another wire. “You are a terrible spy, Peril.”

The timer hadn’t sped up but it was still going, the bomb hadn’t exploded either but it was still going to and these two idiots were still going at it.

“Why am I terrible spy? What spy needs to disarm bomb? Build? Da. But-”

A sound from the hallway, Illya darted out of the doorway and opened fire with his gun.

“Would the two of you just shut up about who is the worse spy?” Her next cut was the final one, the timer blinked to a stop with nine seconds left. Napoleon let out a deep breath. “I swear, I will put in a request for a transfer. I will ask Waverly to send me,” the bursts of Illya’s gun and the sound of returning fire drowned out Gaby’s rant, “to Nepal, to partner me with the most junior of agents to send me,” Illya stopped firing, “to the secretary pool if the two of you don’t stop this constant one-upmanship!”

Both men stared at her, Illya with the slightly pole-axed expression he wore whenever she had done something that he particularly liked, Napoleon with a far more calculating cat-like look.

“Now.” She cleared her throat. “The boltcutters.”


	4. Creepy Criminal Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon's past comes back to bite him in the ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part bit me in the ass, so to speak, and never let go. This chapter is the third version that I wrote up and posted and I couldn't get it under a thousand words for the life of me. Each time I just needed more exposition or different exposition or the scene just didn't work!  
> Warning for a creepy guy creeping on Napoleon in a really tight swimsuit.

Waverly kept them on their toes. Whether it was because keeping them on a job kept them under his control or because keeping them on a job kept them focused, Gaby couldn’t be sure. There always seemed to be another tie to the mysterious Nazi affiliated organization, another world ending possibility that needed both USSR and USA united. After Istanbul there was Budapest, after Budapest there was Majorca, after Majorca there was Jerusalem and on and on. Now it was Mar del Plata and now it was personal.

“You keep looking at me like that.” Napoleon had said when they had set up in their hotel. Napoleon and Gaby in one room, Illya in another. “When I knew Gustav the only thing he exported was art.”

“Illegal artwork.” Gaby hadn’t wanted to sound superior or upset, she hadn’t been sure what she was feeling. “I suppose it isn’t that great a leap from pieces of art to pieces of weaponry.”

Napoleon had shrugged. “Once you start down the primrose path of villainy it seems to be a slippery slope.”

A slippery slope that had ended with the three special agents invited into his compound. Although that was not quite the end of it. They needed to know about Gustav’s ties to the Vinciguerras, they needed to know more about the ‘nefarious Nazis’ (thank you, Waverly) whose influence and schemes circled the globe. Gustav Neumann, human trafficker, weapon smuggler, art dealer, and general slimeball of a human being seemed to be as likely a source of information as any. Napoleon’s acquaintance with him was practically a golden ticket, even if, as Napoleon had said, the two of them parted on poor terms.

Gustav’s smile when he spotted Napoleon made Gaby’s skin crawl.

“Leo! Oh, Leo, I had heard you were in town but I didn’t believe it. Even when Franco told me you were here. I thought for sure it was a copycat, some dismal imposter.”

Napoleon had smiled and tilted his head, the way he did when he was gauging a mark, generally when he was gauging how to fling a knife into them. “When your man tendered your invitation I thought for sure he was mistaken as well. Aren’t you supposed to be dead, Gustav?”

Neumann had waved both hands in the air, his opened shirt fluttering in the breeze to expose a large scar that ran across his pasty white stomach. “No matter, Leo. We can talk about all that later! First you must all get dressed.”

“…dressed.” This from Illya, Illya who was both muscle and money this trip, his cover that of a corrupt USSR official who wanted to help grease the wheels for a small cut of the profits. It was not a cover he enjoyed. Gaby liked her cover even less, that of Napoleon’s ‘protégé’ who he had smuggled out of Germany under the CIA’s very nose. That was, if Gustav even bothered to look past her being window dressing. 

“Yes, dressed.” Gustav motioned to the pool he lounged by, the spare handful of guards placed around its perimeter dressed similarly in a cabana bathing suit set. Theirs all matched, Gustav’s was obviously the more expensive and stylish. “Or undressed, as the case may be, I never do any business in more than a bathing suit. Not anymore.” He gave Napoleon a look.

Gaby was beginning to detest Gustav’s ‘looks’.

“Learned my lesson for me?” Napoleon questioned with good cheer. “If I had known that the police were placing beautiful women undercover to trap me I would have bragged less, I suppose.”  
Gaby snorted.

Gustav grinned at her this time.

“Well, there are suits for you all in the changing tents. Please, help yourself.”

Gaby glanced at Illya, Ilya nodded at her without looking to Napoleon. They needed more time, time to get the lay of the land, time to win Gustav’s trust, if they could. 

“If we must.” Illya grated out. Gustav did not smile at him, his gaze was on Napoleon. Gaby didn’t look, she wasn’t sure she wanted to see Napoleon’s expression, instead she headed towards the changing tent. Illya followed behind her, slow, possibly to keep near Napoleon as well.

“Leo,” Gustav said lowly, quiet enough that Gaby barely caught it, “I believe I have a suit that would fit you in the orange tent.”

Gaby ducked into the blue tent and caught Illya’s expression, stony, and when she looked at his hands they were shaking slightly. She understood the feeling.

The blue tent had a mix of bathing suits. She flipped through monokinis and bikinis, and wrinkled her nose at the absolutely hideous one pieces available. Eventually she chose a bikini, the boning in the top and push it gave her bosom allowed her to slip one of Illya’s small transmitters between her breasts. Not the most comfortable and if she took a dip in the pool it would be fried but if she could plant it in Gustav’s house it would be worth it. The belt attached to the swimsuit was stiff enough that she was able to slip a slim knife through the back loop. Unfortunately, no doubt as Gustav had hoped, there was little else she could hide on her person. Not in a bikini. She wondered if the boys had done much better.

She was unsurprised to see Illya already dressed, he glared at the swimmers in Gustav’s pool and at Gustav himself, someone had poured Illya a drink of something clear and it gathered condensation at the table to his right. “Solo still taking his time?” She asked as she adjusted her sunhat and glasses. “He’s worse than I am.”

When Illya clenched his fists the muscles in his arms stood out, he had scars there, and on his legs, scars she hadn’t seen before despite sharing room after room with the man. 

“Leo is so vain.” Gustav sighed. “And to think, I made sure he only had one option.”

…ah. That. Did not sound good.

“Why do you call him that?” Illya interrupted. “Why ‘Leo’?”

Gustav’s smile was all teeth. “Have you ever seen a lion Mister… ah, what was your name again?”

Illya’s smile was more a baring of teeth than a smile. “Ivanovich.”

“Have you ever seen a lion, Mister Ivanovich?” Gustav’s smile made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Beautiful manes, very regal.”

“And they do have a bevy of female lions at their beck and call.” Gaby took a seat at Illya’s side, one arm around his shoulder. It was odd to her that despite his cold hands the rest of him was so very warm. “Yes, I see the likeness.”

It was then that Napoleon slipped out of his tent. 

The suit he wore was short and left little to the imagination. It was clear that he had not been able to secret any tools on his person. Seeing him so undressed was also strange, stranger even since she had walked in on Napolen with a particularly buxom young lady in Majorca, he had been less covered then, clothed in lipstick marks, shadows, and a twisted sheet. But that had not been in the full light of day when sunlight could catch on the twisted scars on his left side and his right arm. No, it was not the swimsuit he would have chosen, although she could not say he would not have bared himself just as much on his own. 

“A lion without his mane.” Gustav said. “Do you like the suit, Leo?”

“I’ve worn less.” Napoleon responded. “In worse company.” 

It was possibly true, Napoleon had kept terrible company in the past, especially if Gustav had been a member of it. “Now, to business.” Gustav motioned that Napoleon should take the seat across from him. “What kind of business deal could you three possibly offer me that my current business partners cannot?”

It takes three days for everything to go south, three days of careful negotiations that ended with Illya chained awkwardly to the floor, Napoleon trapped with Gustav and Gaby left… well. She supposed Gustav considered her completely helpless. He had never truly bought into her cover as Napoleon’s protégé. “You know,” she complained as she broke apart her sunglasses. It broke her heart to twist the plastic off the frames, they had been quite expensive. “I’m surprised you haven’t broken those chains yet.” 

“I am waiting.” Illya craned his neck to look at the ceiling. “He is terrible spy.”

“It doesn’t really have the same…” she grunted as she pulled his chains into a better position, “umph if you say it when he isn’t here.”

Illya grunted as he twisted. “Many things do not have same umph without Cowboy.”

“Leo.” Gaby said with a roll of her eyes. Illya nodded and lay on his back once one arm was free, Gaby set to work on unlocking the next wrist. 

It was short work to get out of the room Gustav had them in. He either must use it only for those chained to the floor or his captives did not fight back very often. They found Napoleon halfway down the hallway. “You didn’t need me after all.”

Gaby shook her head but she couldn’t quite help the smile. “You made an excellent distraction, Cowboy.”

Napoleon tilted his head at first her, then Illya. He reached behind his back and pulled out a stack of files. “But a terrible spy?”

Illya grabbed the files and propelled the two of them down their exit route, his hand, usually so cold, was “Da. Now let us go.”


	5. Crackerjack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya is teaching Gaby Russian, Napoleon is teaching her safecracking.

It had been a long time since Illya had found much in life to amuse him. His childhood had not been one that led to laughter and his adolescence… well, that had not been a time for laughter either. There had, of course, been friends. Children make friends easily and even in an environment where he and others were forced to be each other’s enemies, even there allies had been made. There had been little laughter, however, laughter was loud, it attracted the wrong sort of attention.

He found it difficult, at times, to keep a straight face around Napoleon and Gaby. They were… they were amusing. Napoleon tried hard to be funny, of course, he made his charming little jokes, his snide asides about sex, the comments about Illya’s ability that had him clenching his fists. These were not the moments that Illya found amusing. Instead it was Napoleon’s manner, the little things that… that made him so American. Illya rather liked when Napoleon showed off, the prideful moments that only occasionally came before a fall. He thinks that Napoleon may not have had many people to show off to, people who would appreciate his art. Not that Illya appreciated it, not out loud, anyway.

Gaby appreciated it. The first time she watched Napoleon pick the lock on a pair of handcuffs her eyes had lit up.

He is now giving her lessons in safecracking.

“And then you twist it, to the right,” they have such gentle hands, a gentle touch, Illya found it hard to focus on his chess game, his line of sight kept leading him to the table where Gaby and Napoleon are working on a small room safe, “hear that?” Napoleon asked, soft, gentle, strangely… strangely strange. 

He is never so gentle with Illya.

Of course, Illya would not allow such gentleness. He does not need it. Does not want it.

“Hear what?” Gaby questioned crossly. Ah, so, she had not heard it. Whatever ‘it’ was. A click, perhaps? 

“The sound of Peril’s heart breaking as you,” Napoleon moved his hand away and the safe swung open, “become a better thief than he.”

Gaby laughed triumphantly and Illya dropped his gaze to the chessboard in front of him. She had not heard ‘it’ anyway, so she was not quite at Solo’s level. Illya doubted he would have heard whatever Solo listened for either. Napoleon had startlingly good ears.

“That is good.” He said as he picked up his knight for the sixth time in two minutes. “I am not thief, I am spy. She is not thief either. She is spy.”

“And me?” Napoleon questioned idly. He picked up his glass of scotch and took a sip. It was a distracting sip, entirely for show, or at least, that was what Illya would blame his attention on. Illya did not want to think of other reasons he found it hard to draw his eyes away from Solo’s bared throat. Just like he tried to pretend professional courtesy every time he was gifted a chance to lay hands on Gaby. He knew he was lying to himself, at least, he was very good at spotting his own lies.

“You are very good thief.” He waved the knight at Napoleon, mockingly (not symbolically). “But I am better spy.”

“Is that the new ‘you’re a terrible spy, Cowboy’?” Gaby questioned. She examined the safe as she spoke, it held nothing they had not put inside of it, of course. “Instead it will now be ‘I am a better spy’?”

Her impersonation was embarrassingly accurate.

It made him laugh.


	6. The Gift that keeps on Giving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya suspects that he cannot be happy but his beloved show him how wrong he is.

The gifts sat heavy in his pockets as he walked. He did not like how they felt, every step was a reminder of what he had wished for, or no, every step was a reminder of what he was not allowed to have. He had foolishly thought he could have the two of them, had foolishly thought he could live a life under the control of Waverly and his grand schemes. He should have known it would all come apart at the seams almost as soon as it had come together.

Three days ago he had kissed Solo.

Then Gaby.

Then Solo again.

Then Gaby, on her mouth, her neck, he had traced the line of her hips, had grasped her buttocks and hitched her onto him. They had pushed up against Napoleon, then, and he had ground his hips against Gabby’s rear and Illya’s hands and Illya had kissed Napoleon over Gaby’s shoulder and they had both nipped at her skin until she had been covered in light marks that had faded before the sun rose. It had been exhilarating.

It had been stupid.

He had taken a run that morning, as he had every morning they had been in Lisbon. He had found that he liked Lisbon although he could not pinpoint what about Lisbon he liked. If he had told Gaby she would have helped him figure it out. If he had told Solo, he would have teased.

But now he will never tell them that he liked Lisbon. He will never tell Gaby he loved her. He had not worked up to that yet. He will never tell Solo that either, even if he is not sure how he feels about Solo quite yet.

The door to the apartment squeaked slightly when he opened it. It is a precaution that they had taken upon moving in, prior to their tenancy the door had opened with a whisper. 

He saw Napoleon before Napoleon saw him, primarily because the man sat with his back to the door. The idiot. He relied too heavily on his persona of carefree dilettante. Even with the strategically arranged mirrors (he tried to be circumspect about them but he failed) someone could enter the apartment and shoot him in the back of the skull before he could react. Solo rustled his newspaper and looked over his shoulder at Illya, his face and eyes full of questions. “You’re back early.”

Illa bit back six responses before he considered the seventh. “I met someone.”

Gaby, who sat with her feet up on a little end table that was worth the same amount of money as the dress she wore, sighed and hung her head over the arm of the chair she lounged in. “Who did you meet?”

He wished that he had not come back. He could have left with Yuliy, he could have, it would have been a quicker return to his handler’s arms. But no, he thought that Gaby and Napoleon deserved to know, deserved a goodbye. He had thought he would be strong enough to do it.

Or had he simply ignored his own weakness? He was weak, he knew, for them.

“We can hear you thinking from here, Illya.” Gaby complained. “And see it too.” She had abandoned her pose stretched out over the chair. Solo had stood up as well and both of them were eying him with terrifyingly knowing expressions.

“You aren’t getting cold feet now, are you, Peril?” Solo questioned. Because, oh yes, everything was always about sex, about him. 

Illya curled one hand into a fist.

“I would not get cold feet.” He said, even though he would. “I am leaving you.”

Gaby sucked in a breath.

“Not relationship.” He said quickly. “Or, yes, I am leaving the relationship. I must.” He paused. “I must go back.”

They have told me I must come back. 

Solo’s face closed off immediately. “Well, business as usu-”

Gaby’s elbow hit him in the chest with a solid sounding whump. Napoleon gasped and lurched forward. The noise he made was entertaining, the noise Gaby made was startling, it was like a tea kettle once it reached a rolling boil.

“You.” Gaby took a deep breath. “You are both such children. How are you the best spies in the world? I don’t believe it. You are both terrible spies.” 

Both men opened their mouths. “Don’t.” 

Illya shifted towards the door and Gaby pointed at her abandoned chair. “Sit.” 

“Now.” Gaby shoved Solo in his direction, the American sat down on Illya’s lap. “I will call Waverly, he will get this straightened out, and then you,” she pointed at Illya again, “are going to come to bed while Napoleon and I show you how stupid you were to think you could leave.”

Illya’s view of the ferocious goddess that was his… lover? Beloved. His beloved was blocked by Napoleon Solo’s large head as the man dropped in for a kiss. Illya’s hands were pinned under Solo’s weight, if he chose to move the man he could have freed himself but… he allowed himself to be pinned to the chair, and kissed, and for his hat to be tossed in the direction of the trash and for his turtleneck to be pulled down in a manner that stretched the collar while Napoleon sucked bruises on the side of his neck.  
Gaby watched them with hungry eyes, one finger wound around the cord of the phone.

It turned out to be a plot by enemies of Illya and the Soviet Union and thus Illya’s decision to go back to his lovers had not been cowardice but instead a brilliant tactical decision on his part. Gaby laughed about it, once this was discovered, and dangled her brand new bracelet over her head. Napoleon was not so demonstrative of his appreciation of Illya’s gift but the tie clip made its way onto a startling number of outfits. Even outfits that Napoleon would complain it ‘did not match’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bracelet and tie pin are totally bugged. Somehow. Special chemicals. IDEK how. But they are. It is how Illya shows his love.


End file.
